Moving From Unawareness to Compassion

My Journey

Photo by Fredrick Lee on Unsplash

The past eight years have been tough for me. Not only because of personal stresses but also because my heart breaks when I hear or read about wars, violence, killing, disrespecting those in the military, mocking people with disabilities, trampling women’s rights, imprisoning or holding individuals hostage for no valid reason, and not keeping children safe at school.

The VeryWell Mind website says compassion includes accepting people for who they are and forgiving them for making mistakes, showing respect, encouraging others, and listening carefully without judgment. It seems to have been missing in action lately.

However, last week, I felt a glimmer of hope that it may still be alive and well, after all, at least in the minds of some.

My parents taught me to be kind, caring, and thoughtful to others, but my real introduction to compassion didn’t occur until I was about fifty. I lived in an all-white world. When I lived in the Midwest 40 years ago, people who were poor and of other races lived in different parts of the city; we lived separate lives.

After Dan and I moved to California, I worked for a police department and experienced for the first time the differences between my “white” life and those of people less fortunate.

I had a foot in two worlds: wealthy and middle-class white people living on the west side and people of color—mainly Black and Latino—living in poverty - on the east side. While such a division isn’t unique to just that city, it was a new perspective for me at the time.

I developed a counseling program for schoolchildren and their families - mainly for those living on the east side. During that time, I learned about unequal educational chances and healthcare funding, among other things.

The school district couldn’t afford the highest-quality teachers, didn’t get equal funding for supplies, and had fewer staff training opportunities than wealthier districts. Yet, students were competing to enter college as if they had equal skills and knowledge with students from other wealthier districts.

My 16-year-old client died after giving birth to a baby girl. Her family couldn’t afford health care. People were working two or three jobs to pay for housing and food—it didn’t include money for insurance, dentist visits, or a warm coat.

Most families didn’t have the time, skills, or energy to do more than survive. Their values, motivations, and dreams were similar to mine; they simply didn’t have the resources.

The 20 years I worked with them changed me. I saw life through their eyes and lived with their reality and struggles. It set the stage for a very different way of thinking.

I saw things as they were, learned people had valid reasons for their decisions and problems and developed compassion. I felt their suffering and wanted to help.

My compassion was repeatedly tested as I cared for Dan, started a new life and survived the pandemic—compassion for myself, him, and others in similar positions. I was successful some of the time, but not always.

Over those eight years, I kind of lost hope for the future. People didn’t seem to know what compassion was any longer. Doctors pressured families to make specific decisions, and facilities didn’t do as they promised; it was okay to scam older adults, and violence and wars erupted in this country and abroad.

However, last week, I saw glimmers of compassion, a booster shot, if you will. Enough of a boost to get me back on track and to begin moving forward with some hope.

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